


Tale of Two Kings

by Homunculi



Category: League of Legends RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Blood and Injury, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, M/M, Violence, so they might talk a little ooc, sort of period
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-19 06:55:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29622348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Homunculi/pseuds/Homunculi
Summary: What happens when the rulers of two warring kingdoms are forced to form an alliance?
Relationships: Marcin "Jankos" Jankowski/Martin "Rekkles" Larson
Comments: 82
Kudos: 73





	1. Match Made in Hell

There were few outsiders who bore the privilege to stand in his court. And among rivals even less so. Yet here a decorated emissary knelt before his throne, a knight. He was escorted in, flanked on all sides by Larsson’s royal guard. The prince’s cold eyes narrowed as he recognized the emblem that was intricately engraved on the visitor’s armor. 

“Pretty rude of you to come in here without the decency to show your face,” the ruler spoke calmly. 

The mercenary sighed audibly.

“Then tell your guards to stand down.”

With an unenthused wave of his hand, the soldiers backed off, and in one swift movement, the cavalier removed his helmet. The sentries immediately aimed their weapons at his head. He raised his arms in false surrender, grinning cheekily.

“Hey, now, gentlemen. Let’s not shoot the messenger,” he laughed.

“Posing as your own knight? You must not value your life very much, Jankowski.”

“Nice to see you still refuse to address me by my title...Anyway, it’s a matter that’s too important. Well, that - and to spare us both the humiliation. Maybe you can tell me. What’s the meaning of this?”

The unwelcome guest nonchalantly tossed an official scroll to the lofty monarch. He checked the seal, stamped with the crest of his own kingdom, and unfurled the document in confusion. His eyes widened in shock as he scanned his way through what appeared to be a treaty of sorts, one that had clearly been arranged behind his back. 

“Have you been conferring with my council,” he asked in disbelief.

“Why would I want that? I’m winning the war, after all,” the imposter reminded arrogantly, “perhaps your advisors are getting anxious.”

“I guess I’ll be having a talk with them. Thanks for informing me...your majesty,” he added as a formality, as much as he hated it. 

“There’s one issue. I wasn’t the one exchanging with your cortege. It seems my people are to blame, as well. I’m questioning their loyalty, and you should watch yours, too. You and I both know our roles aren’t much more than those of pawns when it comes to the plans of our empires. I intercepted that message from one of my ambassadors.”

“I can understand why they would conspire against a ruler like you,” Martin began, “you may be winning the conquest, but your dominion grows larger as your resources diminish. Your kingdom will be an expanse of starvation and ruin.” 

“You do realize I put myself at risk to bring you that report? I have the power to accept those terms at any moment. But inheriting you into my sovereignty doesn’t suit my plans. Not to mention a betrothal would only be a waste of more precious collateral. Although, I should add that they were offering a handsome dowry for you.”

The prince tightened his grasp on the scroll with malice.

“Consider it a debt, then. Guards, see him out!”

As soon as the neighboring prince was ousted from his castle, the young man stomped off to begin his interrogation. He stormed through the grand wooden doors, into the quarters of his General, the manuscript wrinkled in his clutches. 

“What’s the meaning of this, Alfonso,” Martin demanded angrily.

The strategist, who at first appeared alarmed, sat back in his chair with a heavy sigh. He eyed the document, bearing their royal coat of arms, and he knew at once what the commotion was about. The atmosphere was rife with tension and a mounting sense of dread weighed on the ruler’s heart. 

“Don’t tell me you knew the whole time,” he continued, sounding wounded.

“It wasn’t my decision to make. As the commander of your army, I was naturally strong-armed into agreeing. After all, your own soldiers would be forced to commit mutiny if things went awry.” 

“Then who arranged this? Who is plotting to overthrow me?”

“It’s Duke Zafra...But you must tread with caution! I beseech you, as a friend, he mustn’t know that you’ve discovered his plan. How did you come by this,” the officer said, pointing to the message. 

“Jankowski came in person to decline the terms.”

“This affair is becoming exceedingly dangerous. First, we must get rid of this.” 

Alfonso plucked the scroll from his fingers and held one corner over a lit candle until the corner caught fire. They watched it intently as the flames slowly engulfed the entirety of the paper, crumbling to ash. 

“You see, what that naive man fails to realize is, he is as much in charge of his own kingdom as you are. It’s a farce. Puppetry, my lord. Very deceitful people are pulling the strings in the background. You give the orders, and they carry out what they must. But everyone has their own agenda. And I fear this war has taken its toll on both royal parties. Our correspondence was already met by his council, unbeknownst to him, it would seem.” 

“What was their verdict,” Martin asked nervously.

“What do you think, sir? They’re starved for supplies and absorbing you into their estate is the closest they’ll get to a white flag from us.”

“I’d rather fucking surrender.”

“That’s exactly what the Duke is fighting to avoid. He plans to take your place, and carry out an aggressive assault on the enemy, the likes of which will spare no bloodshed. He sees your mercy as weakness. He blames you for the state of our borders.” 

“Our frontlines have suffered due to his negligence. You’re a capable Captain, but he doesn’t allocate any of our resources to smithing and weaponry. What good is a well-trained army without the necessary armaments? Such an arrogant bastard. He won’t get away with this.”

“Your highness, be reasonable. Do you really believe you have a choice? If you refuse the betrothal, you’ll be overthrown in a coup d'état.”

“Then I’ll flee.”

“Where would you seek refuge? The outskirts of our holdings are all being pushed in by enemy front lines as we speak. You’ll never cross over unscathed.”

\-------------------------------

Later that night, Martin tossed and turned in a restless sleep. He jolted awake in his bed to the eerie sound of tapping coming from his balcony window.  _ Was this it? Had his own troops been ordered to assassinate him in the dead of night?  _

As he pulled back the curtain, he was met with a familiar, but equally uninvited face. He unlatched the door, poking his head out into the drafty evening air.

“What the hell are you doing here again? Who even let you in?”

“Can I explain inside, please? It’s sketchy out here. I might be seen,” Marcin insisted.

“Ahem-”

“Please, your majesty,” he choked out.

“Fine,” Larsson agreed, stepping aside, “you go sniveling around too much for a man of your status.”

“Well, for one, I’m not a spoiled brat who’s been sheltered from the world. And two, I’m only here because I did some espionage back on the home front. Bad news, my friend.”

“You’re not my friend. In fact, I don’t even consider you my peer,” Martin scoffed.

“The way things are headed, you’ll be considering me your husband. So, I would watch my fucking tone if I were you,” he threatened.

Martin crossed his arms bitterly, sitting back on his bed. 

“I did some digging here, too,” he explained, “our options are rather grim.”

“Yes, as I suspected, both of our political advisors were negotiating behind our backs. But I’ve come to make a proposition.”

“What would that be,” he asked skeptically.

“We must both accept the arrangement.”

“There’s no way in hell I’m marrying you,” he raised his voice.

“Shh, shhh. Listen. I need your help in this. Hear me out. We marry, placate our council. Let them think that they are running the show. Then, together, we will overthrow them both. Our kingdoms can be as one and we could conquer the whole world if we wanted to,” Marcin said calmly.

“We’re two men, not an army, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“You’re forgetting one thing. I have always fought alongside my knights, and I am first in line for command of my soldiers. My men would never betray me. I know when the time comes, they will stand by me. That - and, not all is lost in your court, you will still have those devoted to you, left to flip in your house of cards. Should the moment arise. When the chips are down, we’ll see where our loyalties lie. They’ll come to our aid, I assure you.”

The room was silent while Larsson sat in thought, brow furrowed as he stared at the marble floor. 

“Why would you partner with me,” he asked suspiciously.

“To save my own ass,” Marcin answered honestly, “also, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that you’re still better looking than half the princesses they’ve tried to coerce me into courting,” he laughed.

Martin lifted his gaze to glare formidably in response to his tasteless joke. But after some deliberation, he finally conceded. He extended his hand in a truce, and Jankowski shook it, sealing their fate with a single gesture. 

  
  



	2. Wounded Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The engagement moves forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and commenting so far.   
> I want to preface this by saying, I know I include management/coaching staff as personalities in this, but their roles in this story don't reflect my views on these people irl. just sayin'.

For a while, their lives carried on as usual, with the exception of an uncharacteristic stalemate. If he hadn’t known any better, this certainly would’ve drawn Martin’s attention. Jankowski had been relentless in commanding the onslaught from his troops. Every day his territory expanded inch by agonizing inch, encroaching upon Larsson’s commonwealth and painting the town red. So when the skirmishes suddenly ceased altogether, their defenses were relieved to say the least. But Martin knew the reprieve was only due to the temporary shift in focus at his enemy’s domain. The dreaded day was drawing near. 

When his council broke the news to him, he had to act like he was surprised. It was even more difficult not to laugh in their faces as they lied through their teeth about how it was all part of their master plan for the empire. A necessary evil, they called it, but they propagated it as more than just a marriage. The idea they posed to him, which he knew was a myth, was that he was there under false pretenses. Their kingdom would agree to demilitarize and donate resources to Jankowski’s Manifest Destiny. In exchange, they agreed not to take any more of Larsson’s territory, and expand elsewhere. These were the terms laid out in the contract. But according to the Duke, this was a diversion so that the enemy would invest their forces elsewhere. Meanwhile, they would never truthfully demilitarize, in fact, they would be secretly bolstering their army. The intention was to carry out an ambush when their rivals least expect it. In the chaos of this invasion, having earned his ‘husband’s’ trust, Martin would slay the First Blood King and assume ultimate dominion over both kingdoms. 

He had been praying that the exchange would be done under the table. But with all things pertaining to the monarchy, it had to be recognized by the public. And as such, they’d be forced to elope for the populace to witness. This must be the purpose of the armistice, he figured, preparation for the ceremony. Which meant that the official decree would be announced any day now. And to his dismay, it appeared that today would be that day -The announcement of their engagement to the citizens. He felt sick as Alfonso came into his room that afternoon to warn him. 

“You’ve got to get ready, sir. Formal attire. But please hurry. We have to escort you to Jankowski’s castle. They’re holding some sort of gala for the announcement of the betrothal.”

“Tell me you’ll stay there with me,” he pleaded.

“Of course. I’ll be there, along with the rest of your royal guard. We’ve got to be prepared for anything. However, it’s highly unlikely they’ll pull any trickery with the masses in attendance.”

“Do you know anything about the date for the actual ceremony?”

“Not yet, but I’d imagine they’ll be revealing that this evening.”

\-----------------------------

The last thing he wanted was to live up to Marcin’s coddled perception of him. He refused to appear intimidated, or show up like some princess being auctioned off as property. They marched in, parading through the crowds as he led the group atop his ornately armoured steed. His crown was tilted ever so slightly atop his perfectly styled hair, exactly as he preferred it. And he strode through the impending fortress gates with his chin up, and an unbreakable sense of superiority. As they dismounted and made their way up the tall steps to the castle’s main entrance, he locked eyes with Jankowski, who was waiting for him at the top. His faithful knight stood steadfast by his side, unmoving and impenetrable as his prince’s aura. Martin certainly had knights that served under his principality, but never one that served him directly. It didn’t align with his way of operating, which was far more removed than that of Marcin. 

By now, thousands of villagers had already gathered at the foot of the stairs, and Martin kept his composure, even as the other prince smirked down at him arrogantly. Not that he didn’t expect this type of attitude. It was typical for Marcin to play smug as if this whole ordeal was his idea from the get-go. But Larsson wasn’t about to let it get the better of him. He smiled back politely, but rejected Jankowski’s proffered hand as he reached the precipice. Marcin shrugged it off, rolling his eyes at his knight like they had some kind of inside joke. 

Jankowski wasn’t one for regalia, rarely even donning his crown, but his officials had forced him to dress properly for the occasion. He felt stiff, and uptight, and he flinched as Lord Carlos approached on his side, patting him encouragingly on the shoulder before descending the staircase to stand before the congregation. He spoke with so much dignity and charisma, welcoming the people to their estate and explaining the bright and peaceful future that could be promised between the two lands. Both the rich and the poor were invited, those from both countries came together. And they cheered as Carlos said a toast to the engagement, ritualistically raising his sword and flourishing it up to the two princes. 

For a moment, Marcin stood there, frozen, trying to block out what he knew must come next. A playful nudge in the ribs from his knight jostled him back to life. With a shameful feeling burning away at his ego, he lowered himself down onto one knee before a very bewildered Martin. He kept his eyes trained on the ground in front of him and lifted a small, gilded box. He pulled off the top, revealing a new crown, one adorned with beautiful red jewels that represented the colors of the Blood King’s reign - a stark contrast to the blue stones that decorated Larsson’s current tiara. 

“King of the North, please take my hand in marriage.”

His unwavering voice did not match the sense of defeat that echoed through his bones as his words reverberated through the garrison’s walls, plain for all to hear. He still hadn’t dared to peek up at Martin. But for all his pride, he had to. He didn’t want to give Martin the satisfaction. He tilted his head up, looking at the hesitant prince. Woefully, though his face didn’t show it, Larsson reached up and removed his own crown, sinfully letting it clatter on the floor at his feet. He swallowed hard and looked into the pained eyes of the man kneeling before him, and for a second, he swore they were sharing the same emotions. Quickly, he recollected himself, and with an air of indifference, he lifted the baroque trinket and placed it upon his head. 

For a moment, staring at Martin, a part of his heart ached to behold how the rubies clashed with his piercing blue gaze. It was almost...beautiful. But he promptly dismissed the thought, as he stood up and dusted himself off, lost in the joyous cheers and applause from the horde below them. 


	3. Requiem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin feels like a fish out of water, but maybe things aren't so bad.

Martin spent the majority of the party clinging to Alfonso’s side. Even though his own political cabinet was in attendance, he never felt more out of place. The General couldn’t help but feel pity for his prince. It bothered him to see Larsson looking so lost and uncomfortable. He could only imagine how abysmal it might be for him once all of the people were gone and his royal companions could no longer interfere. He’d be alone, confined to the walls of this looming castle, stripped of all company but the enemy, possibly subject to god knows what kind of mistreatment. That was the point, or rather the Duke’s goal, after all. He was secretly hoping that Jankowski’s court, if not he himself, would ‘take care’ of Martin for them, removing him from the picture. Thus, making Zafra the next viable heir. 

It was fair to think that the prince might not endure this place, this brutish breed of monarchy that was so different from his own. He was a brilliant intellectual, but not a fighter by any means. Not that it was by his own fault. He was merely a product of a polished upbringing. He was privileged to have studied under the tutelage of many famous philosophers and scholars. His royal family believed that the job of a prince was nothing more than symbolic. Niceties and status in the social sphere came above all else. His words, his appearance - perfection was always demanded of him. By contrast, Jankowski’s lineage was bred for the battlefield, everything else was secondary. He was trained in fencing and sword fighting from a delicate age, which contributed to his natural fondness of knights. 

If he had his way, he would be one, and abandon his post on the throne in a minute. That’s why his closest inner circle was exclusively composed of chevaliers, rather than other nobles, a raucous band of other like-minded young men. Marcin was drinking and chatting with them, they sat around him on both sides of the banquet table. Larsson couldn’t help but think it must’ve been some sort of transgression against the code of chivalry, seeing a bunch of knights being merry with their helmets off, making casual conversation with a king. Didn’t they have damsels to rescue from dragons? 

Marcin noticed that his standoffish guest of honor was looking their way, and as they caught each other’s eyes, Martin turned his head in the opposite direction defiantly. He wouldn’t deign to introduce himself to anyone associated directly with Jankowski. 

“What’s his problem,” Hansen asked snidely.

“Be a little sympathetic. Poor man’s being sold out by his own people to go marry this freak and live in a place he’s unfamiliar with...Imagine being a king and getting treated like a mail order bride,” Mihael laughed dryly. 

“How do you think I feel,” Marcin cried sarcastically, “it’s not like his life will be that bad here. I’ll just force him to do all the boring royal duties so I can spend more time fighting alongside you guys.”

“Rasmus, what’s wrong,” the tall, blonde knight asked curiously. 

“I defected, remember? I knew the prince well, but he never knew what became of me. I think they told him I was taken as a prisoner of war or something,” he said nervously, hiding his face with a large glass of ale. 

A couple years prior, Rasmus had served as a high ranking officer in Larsson’s battalion. Even though the prince wasn’t a fan of getting his hands dirty on the battlefield, he was still heavily involved in strategizing. It was his penchant for genius that bonded him to Winther. They could sit and talk for hours, picking each other’s brains. Not just about war, but many things. The prince held a special level of respect for the officer, rarely crossing paths with someone he’d consider his intellectual equal. The day Rasmus rode into the fray and never returned, he mourned as if he’d lost his only friend. 

Martin had already caught sight of him, recognizing him instantly. He rushed to the table and confronted the familiar man.

“Winther?!”

Larsson looked like he’d seen a ghost.

“Uh-oh,” Mihael added cutely.

“Y-yes, your highness,” Rasmus replied timidly.

“This whole time I thought you were dead,” he said in disbelief.

“Um...surprise~” he chuckled weakly, the way someone says a punchline when they know their joke is awful. 

Martin frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a drawn out sigh.

“As much as I want to be angry about your betrayal, we can save that talk for another time. I’m more relieved that you’re safe, Commander….or I guess I should refer to you as Sir now. At least I’ll have one old friend in this godforsaken place.”

“It’s an honor to serve under your rule once again, your highness,” Rasmus said, kneeling to bow before the prince.

“Rasmus, get up. He’s not your king  _ yet _ ,” Marcin spoke sharply.

“I’m wearing your stupid fucking crown. I don’t know what more you expect from me,” Martin said coolly.

“Nothing’s official until we consummate the marriage,” he answered with a sly grin.

Hansen laughed, and Mihael shook his head in embarrassment. Martin clicked his tongue and sat down next to Rasmus, undeterred by Marcin’s disgusting sense of humor. Alfonso spied his prince from a distance, and felt proud of him for at least attempting to socialize. Maybe things wouldn’t turn out so badly for the young man in the end. 

“I’d say you at least owe me this after disappearing for all of those years,” Martin said, stealing Rasmus’s pint and taking a large sip. 

“It’s fine. I wasn’t drinking it anyways,” he shrugged.

“Yeah, Winther can’t handle his alcohol,” Jankowski teased.

“Neither can you, apparently. Or are you  _ always  _ this uncouth,” Martin asked smartly.

Things were tense for a moment, and nobody knew what to say to recover the situation. But fortunately, Carlos saved them with yet another toast. To their chagrin, it was a call for their first dance. The knights whistled and cheered, finding the timing all too comical. Marcin was the first to stand up, trying to be proactive.  _ The gentleman asks for the lady’s hand _ , he reminded himself, coming to stand in front of Martin, proffering his hand gently, much like he had earlier. 

“May I have this dance?”

The notion of Jankowski’s fake decorum was enough to make Larsson want to gag, but he had to keep things civil. It figured he would leap to his feet so eagerly, only to avoid taking the female role. Truthfully, Martin had never danced in the woman’s step, but he would have to commit it to memory. All eyes were on them. He smiled wryly up at his suitor, and took his hand begrudgingly. 

He wanted to pull away as Marcin placed his hand on his waist and lured him in close, but all he could do was tighten his grip on his partner’s shoulder as if he were bracing for something terrible. As they began to dance, he momentarily fell out of sync, and stumbled into the other, their chests brushing together. Thankfully it wasn’t enough of a blunder for their spectators to notice. It was enough, however, to make Jankowski check him with a smug expression. Larsson averted his gaze, somehow feeling embarrassed, and tried to focus on his movements. Painstakingly, they got used to each other, falling into perfect harmony. Their bodies swayed in tempo, following the flow of the orchestral melody.

Gradually, the other guests joined in pairs and also fell into step, until the room around them was a blur of waltzing couples. Martin felt more comfortable this way, now that the spotlight wasn’t on him. His attention was fully captured by the elegant people surrounding them. 

“Hey,” Marcin’s voice called to him softly.

He turned his face back to meet his partner’s, looking like a boy regretfully awoken from a daydream. 

“Hm?”

“While we’re pretending to be civil, I thought I would say...red really suits you, you know,” he answered. 

He temporarily let go of his hand to tenderly adjust the new crown that sat atop Martin’s head, tilting it just the way the prince usually wore his old one. 

“That’s better, right,” Jankowski grinned.

“Hearing the phrase ‘red suits you’ from a guy called the First Blood King sounds more like a threat than a compliment,” Martin laughed, and it actually felt sincere. 

Marcin laughed too, appreciating the scarce glimpse into the playful side of his rival. 

_ While we’re pretending to be civil _ , his words repeated in Larsson’s head, and the sentiment didn’t feel so forced. He took that very line as an excuse as he moved in closer to Jankowski, allowing their bodies to touch, and gently rested his chin on his shoulder while they continued to dance in a slow embrace. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and giving feedback. I'm having a lot of fun writing this one :D


	4. Friends Close, Enemies Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The princes get ready for the ceremony, both are unprepared in their own ways.

One week. 

That’s all the time he had left. To settle his affairs, say his goodbyes, and enjoy his final moments of peace. And it turned out to be the quickest week he’d ever lived through. His chest felt like a hollow cavity as he wandered through the castle, thoughtfully choosing the few belongings worth packing as keepsakes. While servants bustled around him, placing his extravagant wardrobe in chests and hauling them off to waiting carriages, he suddenly felt suffocated. He didn’t want to go all along, but the panic hadn’t set in until this moment. Why were they sending him away with all of these fine things like it was meant to last? 

He could read it all over the Duke’s face. Their plan to salvage him was a bluff. None of them believed that he could overpower Jankowski on his lonesome. They were sending him away to die. Alfonso couldn’t even bear to try and comfort the sobbing prince, as he crumpled to the floor in his study, uncaring if anyone saw him in such a sad state. The General knew that facing the young man would bring him to tears, too. He had to keep it together, at least until after the wedding ceremony. Sometimes a king can’t be strong for his people, so his people must be strong for him.

\--------------------

“You look strapping as ever, your majesty,” Alfonso said encouragingly, as he watched the prince adjust himself in the mirror. 

Martin couldn’t even find it in himself to turn and acknowledge his friend, staring at his reflection soullessly. 

“If it makes any difference, at least you’ll get back at him tonight,” he smiled, holding out the box that held the sapphire laden crown Jankowski would be forced to wear from this day forward, as a symbol of their union. 

The blonde smiled weakly. 

Alfonso took him by the shoulders and spun him around sternly. 

“I might only be one man. But I’ll stand by you, even from afar. I know you can make it until the breach. You’re a brave, clever man. Don’t ever forget that. And I’ll be doing everything in my power to move things along here, so that day comes sooner. If I have to storm that castle myself and get you out when that time arrives, I will. But I trust I won’t have to. You have everything under control, your highness, even if everything seems the opposite right now.”

Martin inhaled sharply, trying to compose himself, and wiped a few final tears from the corners of his eyes. He pulled the man into a tight hug, patting him on the back in thanks. 

“We should go, I suppose. Can’t be late to my own betrothal.”

\----------------------

“Guys, what do you think,” Marcin asked the knights as he buttoned up his suit, “cape, or no cape?”

“No matter how you look at it, you’re going to be the ugly one in the relationship,” Hansen said blankly.

“He has a point,” Mihael shrugged.

“Thanks for the support,” he mused, tossing the cloak to the floor defeatedly.

“What are you going to say for your vows,” Rasmus asked innocently.

“ _ Vows? _ Is that even a thing? Vows at a forced marriage,” Marcin scoffed.

The four of them exchanged a nervous look before scrambling wildly around the room. They opened chests, rifled through drawers, scoured dusty shelves. 

“Do you not have anything to write with,” Mihael cried.

“Do you even know how to write,” Hansen teased.

“Come to think of it, I’ve never seen a book in this entire castle,” Winther commented.

“Calm down. It doesn’t have to be an elaborate poem, okay. I’ll make it short and simple, and that will be the end of it,” Jankowski explained. 

The three of them stood there, staring at him expectantly. 

“I’ve got it! 

Your crown is red

Now my crown is blue

I don’t wanna do this

And neither do you

The end.”

He bowed for dramatic effect as the knights shook their heads hopelessly.

“Alright, Rasmus, you know him best. I assign you the task,” he commanded.

“What? No way. It has to come from the heart,” he replied obstinately.

“Fine, but if he doesn’t have vows prepared and I waste my time for nothing, I’m revoking your title,” he warned sarcastically.

Jankowski sighed and sat on the edge of his bed, deep in thought. Suddenly, Lord Carlos popped in, making sure his prince looked spick-and-span, like a child who couldn’t be trusted to dress himself. He walked over to Marcin, who stood up and straightened out his now slightly disheveled suit. Carlos adjusted the young man’s collar and patted him firmly on the shoulder.

“This is a very special day,” he began.

“For you maybe,” the prince muttered under his breath.

“Yeah, for me. For our empire. So, all I ask, is that you don’t fuck it up. Or else I’ll be shipping you and your new husband off to the highest bidder’s harem,” he said cynically. 

\----------------------------

The carriage ride to the palace was eerily silent. It felt as though he was being delivered straight to Hades on a river of wading souls, his citizens traveling in droves to the massive event. He was in a fever dream as he was ushered through the sea of people, into one of the private chambers of the castle. Before the ceremony, both parties had to meet, and sign a binding contract that officiated the terms and allotments for each kingdom. 

“I thought it was bad luck to see the bride before she walks down the aisle,” Marcin said, trying to ease some of the heavy tension in the room. 

The two princes were sat at a table across from one another, each with their ‘trusted’ advisors at their sides. Jankowski didn’t even bother reading through the document. He picked up the quill and scribbled his name haphazardly. At the end of the day, these plans meant nothing to him. They would all be laid to waste once he reclaimed true power. Both of these scheming men who thought they were so wise, they’d be cut down for their transgressions against the rightful monarchs. For now, he was biding his time, playing their game. 

Martin also signed, with a bit more deliberation, but only to make it seem like he cared. In reality, he could’ve jotted his signature the same as his partner, carelessly giving up the ghost. Except his reasoning was quite contrary. He didn’t see a reclaimed future. He didn’t see a future at all. 

As he glanced up at the man across from him, the indifferent expression on Marcin’s face shifted. Larsson looked like all the light had left him. There was no fiery spirit remaining in his eyes. This was the look of true resignation, and it made Jankowski inexplicably concerned.

When all was said and done, the two were escorted off to separate rooms, where they were left to wait for their cues to be presented to the waiting attendees. Martin sat near a tall window, watching the night sky as he tried to block out the commotion coming from the great hall. The heavy wooden door creaked, startling him from his trance. To his surprise, it was Marcin. 

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You think I’m a liar just like them, don’t you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re gonna seize back our kingdoms and then some - together. We made a deal and I intend to keep it. You can’t let them see you so defeated. You’re giving them what they want. Besides, it’s uncomfortable when you’re not acting like some highbrow aristocrat,” Marcin smirked.

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because I’m just as fucked as you are. And despite whatever your narrow-minded impression of me is, one thing is certain, I’m a man of my word.”

“And who can vouch for you?”

“I’m obligated by the code of chivalry to speak the truth at all times,” he grinned arrogantly.

Martin rolled his eyes.

“In that case, you can indulge in your banneret fantasies all you want. But I’m afraid if this marriage is gonna work, you’re required to be a prince by law,” Larsson jested.

“Fair. But if I have to act like a prince, so do you,” he shrugged before sneaking back out of the room.

Somehow, their brief encounter had managed to ease some of Martin’s inner turmoil. That was the most they had ever talked, and the banter personified the stranger. It made him think that perhaps their contract wasn’t the last page in his book, and in fact, he was about to turn a new page. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're on a roll. This AU is too much fun.   
> I hope you're enjoying <3


	5. Happily Ever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding day.

He waited in the empty room for a while, until the Duke and Alfonso finally joined him for a briefing. Evidently, weddings were a lot more complicated without any prior rehearsal, especially when the customs were completely foreign. It would be like their first dance all over again - unfamiliar, but he would have to grin and bear it. 

At the end of the aisle, the two of them were reunited, and as the music began, they walked towards the altar together. If it was all appearances, then he had Martin fooled, because Jankowski didn’t seem nervous at all. He might even say he looked proud as they proceeded arm in arm, followed closely by Marcin’s band of chevaliers and Martin’s Alfonso. He was thankful that Zafra had declined to walk with him. That man didn’t deserve the honor of standing in as good company. 

They reached the platform and took their respective sides. Rasmus, falling to the right to stand by Alfonso on Larsson’s side. Hansen and Mihael on the left next to Marcin. The officiant offered words of grace and wisdom, the likes of which were nearly enough to put Jankowski to sleep on the spot. Martin, on the other hand, was hanging on every word, astute and alert under the scrutiny of so many outsiders. He nervously fixed his stance as the priest prompted Marcin for his vows. Jankowski took his hand and stared into his eyes, and for a moment, he could see it - a type of fierceness. Not that of passion, but that of a promise. 

“From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.”

A promise, not to their love, but to their dynasty. Martin recognized the verse, it was from a classic writer whom he admired greatly. It was his turn to speak, and truthfully, he hadn’t prepared anything, but two could play at a game of recitement. He artfully jogged his memory for a piece that Jankowski might be familiar with, and settled for the first thing that came to mind.

“I am the weakest, the most wanting in wisdom, I know, And my life, if lost, would be least missed, truly. No bounty but your blood in my body do I know. And since this affair is too foolish to fall to you. I first ask it of you, make it over to me; And if I fail to speak fittingly, let this full court judge Without blame.”

He then genuflected, lowering his head submissively as it was now his turn to present Marcin with the crown of his kingdom. He held out the box, opening it to reveal the enchanting blue trinket that was nestled in a lining of fine silk. Jankowski cast away his own crown, too, graciously replacing it with the new one. 

The couple said their final ‘I do’s’ and the cleric bid them to kiss. This caught them both off guard, despite the commonplace tradition. Perhaps it was a force of habit for the venerable minister, or else for the sake of theatrics. For the pair, it felt like their hesitation encapsulated them in a slow motion scene, the outside world pausing with bated breath. They closed the short gap between them, and Marcin placed his hand at the small of Martin’s back, pulling their waists together. He fully expected to be the sole thespian in this forced performance, but he was surprised as Martin was the first to close his eyes, leaning in willingly to press his blushing lips against Jankowski’s. By all accounts any couple’s first kiss was certain to feel alien, yet this was comfortably strange. Although neither party would openly say so, it would have been just as well to stay like that awhile longer than decency allowed. 

Everyone in the pews stood in congratulatory applause. 

The wedding party made their parade back through the aisle, joyous guests whistling and clapping on either side as they tossed rice over the heads of the newlyweds. Their elation was infectious, and Martin caught himself smiling, even as Marcin scooped him into his arms to walk them over the threshold. 

Marcin grinned down at him and forgot that anyone else in the world existed.

“Gawain, huh,” he spoke plainly.

“I figured that might be the only passage you’d know,  _ imposter _ ,” Martin teased, “So, who clued you in on Tolkein. It was Rasmus, wasn’t it?”

“Was it  _ that _ obvious?”

They shared a laugh before he set Martin back on his own two feet. They took their seats at the head table in the reception hall. Before long, Carlos presented them each with a small glass of strong vodka. They tipped their drinks together before knocking it back. As he had been instructed by Alfonso, he then tossed the glass over his shoulder in perfect accord with his partner. Both of the cups shattered on the floor, and the guests cheered merrily.

“That was actually sort of beautiful,” Hansen smiled, clapping a hand on Jankowski’s back as he took up a chair beside him.

“King Larsson, I once heard that at weddings in your kingdom, if the groom leaves the bride’s sight, it’s customary for male guests to sneak in a kiss with her,” Mihael said curiously.

Martin raised an eyebrow and looked at the brunette flirtatiously. 

“What? Did you wanna try it?”

Mihael could only blush at his unexpected forwardness, especially in front of the man he just married.

“Well, looks like I won’t be leaving your sight, then,” Marcin said playfully, but a part of him meant it. 

\------------------------------------

Everyone drank, ate, and danced late into the night. Since it would be their last time together for a long while, if ever again, Martin was sure to spend most of the evening partying with Alfonso. He wished that the festivities would never come to an end. Even if he drank enough to take the edge off, worries gnawed at the back of his mind. When Marcin wasn’t being loud and boisterous with his friends, he was wooing one of the many noblewomen that fawned over him. And every time Larsson glanced over his shoulder to find him philandering with a different lady, he hoped that at least one of those encounters would result in Jankowski taking them to bed instead of him. 

“Are you envious or something,” his General asked boldly.

“What? No.”

“Why do you keep watching him, then?”

“I’m not as brave as you think I am. I don’t want to sleep with that man,” he said with visible distaste.

Alfonso burst into laughter.

“It’s not funny!”

“That’s not it, I just....Your highness, that’s not a matter of being brave. I would say, don’t worry about it, but with a disorderly bunch of people like this, who knows. Maybe if you drink enough, you won’t remember anything.”

Martin sighed, adjusting his crown. He lifted his glass in the air in mock celebration.

“Cheers to that,” he said apathetically.

\--------------------------

The soiree finally came to a close, and all of the people said their drunken farewells. The time Martin had been dreading the most had arrived. 

“Before I go, I wanted to present you with a gift. It’s strange for a man of your taste, but…I think it will help you fit in here.”

The advisor bowed down, holding out an artfully crafted sword. Martin took it gratefully and freed it from its scabbard. It was beautiful, for a weapon. He felt shameful that it would likely never achieve the purpose it was designed for. 

“It’s lovely. Thank you.”

“I know you’re not accustomed to arms, but you may find a use for it.”

“Yeah, fending off my lecherous husband,” he joked, brandishing the blade.

\------------------------------

Martin didn’t say a word as Marcin led him up a winding stone staircase. The climb felt like it dragged on forever, until they reached the castle’s highest turret. 

“Nobody really comes up here now that this is a palace, rather than a fortress. The servants already brought all of your things. I asked that they turn this entire annex into a space for you. So...here’s your  _ room _ , I guess,” Marcin said, opening the door for him.

It opened up into a full spire of the castle, with a lower and upper level, converted from a vantage point for military defences into an elegant bedroom. It felt so different from the rest of the citadel, decorated and full of adornments. 

“They always lock princesses in the tallest tower, don’t they,” Martin mused, despite feeling inwardly impressed.

“Actually, it’s that it has the best view in the house,” Marcin said charmingly.

Larsson was intrigued by the flattery, to say the least. Both of them stood there awkwardly for a moment, neither entering the room. 

“Well?”

“Well, what,” Martin asked shyly.

“Aren’t you going to retire for the evening?”

“Alone?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I thought we had to-”

Marcin appeared confused for a moment before it finally dawned on him. His eyes widened comically and he bent in half, laughing hysterically. 

“I’m honored by your eagerness,” he paused, wiping a tear of amusement from his cheek, “but I’m not as barbaric as you think.”

Martin was relieved but also extremely offended by his presumption. 

“Honored by my  **_what_ ** _? _ !”

Larsson raised his voice spitefully, but before he could argue, Marcin shoved him backwards into the dormitory, slamming the door closed between them. 

“Goodnight, princess ~ ” he sang as he began his descent back to his area of the castle. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was kinda spicy...actually I almost left out the kiss, but I figured it had to be done.


	6. Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shenanigans and a bath?

The next morning he awoke early, but he felt too unfamiliar with the place to roam about. So he settled for climbing to the upper level of his room to peek at the world outside. Jankowski wasn’t lying, the view from there was remarkable. He watched the sun rise over the castle grounds, bathing the rolling plains in an orange hue. It felt like he sat there for a long time, lost in the scenery, when he was suddenly alerted by three loud thuds at his door. He clambered down from the loft and opened it, jumping back as the muzzle of a horse greeted him. 

“Good morning,” Marcin waved from atop his steed, still in his bedclothes.

Martin stared at the horse, and then up at him in disbelief. 

“You rode your horse...to my room?”

“Do you think I wanna climb all of those stairs? I’m wayyyyy too hung over for that,” he laughed.

Martin shook his head, wondering if the surprises would ever end at this place.

“Hop on. I’ll give you the grand tour,” Marcin said proudly, patting the spot in front of him. 

“First of all, I can walk. Second, I at least have the decency to change from my nightdress. Give me a moment,” he said, closing the door.

Marcin clicked his tongue.

“Fine, have it your way, then. But I hope you can keep up.”

He re-emerged from his quarters, now fully dressed, and gestured for Marcin to lead the way. He followed the horse down the stairs with utter incredulity as the shoed hooves  _ clip-clopped  _ on the stone. As they rounded the bottom of the steps, a dark haired man who was passing through did a double take. He stopped and frowned, putting his hands on his hips.

“Marcin, what did I tell you about bringing your horse inside the house,” he sighed with disappointment.

“Don’t embarrass me in front of my wife, Fabian,” he smiled.

“Oh, good morning, King Larssson. If you ever need anything, let me know. This jester is hardly the reliable type,” the nobleman said with a friendly change of tone. 

“Thank you, sir.”

Suddenly, the distinct sound of more mounted men caught their attention, and they spun around to see Hansen and Mihael also striding up to them on horseback. 

“Who let you in like this,” Fabian cried.

“Uh…We snuck in through the back,” Hansen shrugged.

“There’s no order in this place, I swear to god,” he gave up with a groan, walking off.

Marcin laughed at his disgruntlement and watched him go while Martin stood there, unable to come up with words for the odd situation.

“There are many acres to explore once we get outside. You’re certain you don’t want to ride,” the prince asked again.

Larsson seemed to consider it for a moment, before walking over to Mihael. He looked up at the pale soldier with questioning eyes.

“May I,” Martin asked politely.

The knight raised his eyebrows and turned to Jankowski as if silently asking permission.

“Sure, whatever the princess wants,” Marcin replied snidely. 

Mihael offered out his hand, hoisting Martin up. The prince sat behind him, heedless to the fact that their hips scooted closer and closer together with every sway of the horse’s back. 

They headed outdoors first, ambling across the sprawling grounds. The terrain was something to behold, from enchanting forests and lakes, to eerie bogs reminiscent of folktales about the witches who reside there. But one thing was obvious from the start, most of this commonwealth’s resources were funneled into warfare. They bolstered an expansive armoury, and he witnessed many soldiers who were actively training. The grounds were fully equipped for all manner of smithing, and their stable could have supplied the largest calvary the world had ever seen. 

“This....is where we spend most of our free time,” Marcin said, as they trotted up to a massive jousting arena. 

“You’re joking, right,” Larsson said, unimpressed.

“Not at all. We host proper duels here.”

“And  _ you  _ compete?”

“What else would I do?”

“The knight is meant to be the king’s champion, not himself,” Martin explained pretentiously.

“Some of us don’t mind doing our own dirty work,” Marcin replied smugly, “but if that’s how you prefer things, you can be the royal spectator from now on,” he winked.

“I’ll consider it, but only if I inherit the estate when you get lanced to death.”

“We can teach you some time,” Hansen offered, “we’ll go easy on you.”

As they rode back towards the garrison, Martin found himself somehow admiring this fool he was fatefully married to. An idiot riding a horse in his pajamas, not even wearing his crown. He could be any commoner, for all anyone knew. And yet, there was some innate presence about him. He watched him in profile, appreciating the way the wind tousled his flaxen hair. Marcin turned in time to catch him staring, and grinned charmingly. Larsson was visibly flustered, but he played it off by snugly wrapping his arms around Mihael’s waist and leaning in to rest his cheek on the knight’s shoulder. The brunette tensed up at the touch, but tried his best to pretend the other man wasn’t there. Martin smirked teasingly at Jankowski all the while, whose expression turned serious. He kicked his steed violently to break off ahead of the others. 

\-------------------------------

About a week had passed and even though Martin was becoming more habituated with his new life, he missed his kingdom more with each passing day. Larsson ordered the servants to prepare a bath for him. He was fastidious about personal hygiene, but for now he was more interested in trying to relax and take his mind off of the sudden homesickness that plagued him. He grabbed one of his favorite books and brought it with him to read while he soaked. Whenever the attendants offered to bathe him, he shooed them away, wishing only to be alone while he wallowed in his dreary mood. 

Therefore he was extremely dismayed when Marcin barged into the room, not even bothering to knock. 

“Are you reading a book while taking a bath,” he asked judgmentally.

“I take it you do neither of those things,” Martin sighed and snapped the novel shut, setting it aside.

Jankowski knelt down by the side of the tub, resting his arm on the edge as he leaned close to Larsson.

“I thought we might have some privacy here,” he said, with a lowered voice, almost whispering.

Martin eyed him suspiciously.

“We need to start discussing our plans,” he continued, “but the walls have ears.”

“Plans?”

“First, we need to convert as many men from your army as possible. We’ll have to organize it with your General, Alfonso. I’ll leave it up to you to arrange communications with him in secret...As for me, my troops already know. We just need to wait for the opportune moment to stage the coup. The most important thing for now, is the dowry. Your kingdom paid a lot of money, and we needed it desperately. It’s shameful to admit as a king, but my people are starving. Carlos always sees to it that all funds are fed into the army or personal indulgences, rather than the community. But I’ll have to intercept it somehow, and use it to rally the people’s trust. I feel terrible that they probably blame me for their hardship, but -”

A sudden, aggressive knock at the door startled them both.

“Jankowski! Are you in there?! I’ve been looking for you,” Lord Carlos’s voice boomed from the other side. 

“ _ Shit!” _

He looked around the room quickly, trying to find somewhere to hide, but the room was empty save for bathing herbs, towels, and the big wooden cistern. Martin watched in horror as the king swiftly jumped into the tub with him, fully clothed, and took a deep breath, completely submerging himself under the surface of the water. Larsson snatched his book back up and pretended to read, acting as natural as possible. The advisor shoved open the heavy door and looked around curiously.

“Oh, it’s just you. I apologise, King Larsson,” he said before pausing and looking in Martin’s direction with great scrutiny.

The prince’s heart nearly stopped. Did he notice?

“Are you  _ reading  _ in the bath,” he asked incredulously.

“Uh….yes.”

“Huh,” Carlos replied with amusement, “strange boy. Well, carry on. Sorry to interrupt.”

Once he was positive that the coast was clear, he tapped Marcin on the shoulder, and the prince promptly burst from the water, gasping for air. For a moment, he looked like a drowned cat, gripping the edge of the tub while he coughed to ease his burning lungs.

“You’re fucking insane,” Larsson said, wiping the soaked hair back from Marcin’s forehead with concern.

“You don’t understand. Fabian told me,” he paused to catch his breath, “the council issued explicit orders to all higher-ups to intervene - we’re never to be alone together unchaperoned. They don’t trust it.”

“What do you mean? Why?”

“They don’t want our relationship to be anything more than a political front. They still consider you the enemy, and they don’t want me consorting with you. What’s worse is that they want to get rid of you, so they can lure some naive princess here and force me to marry her to get another inheritance, sway some other unassuming empire in our favor.” 

“Why is that worse for you?”

“Because...I’m already happily married,” he smiled.

Martin was torn between clubbing him over the head with his book - or kissing him. But he figured since he’d just endured nearly suffocating to death in a bathtub, that he deserved the more forgiving option. He could never be sure if Jankowski was jesting or not, so he leaned in hesitantly at first. The other seemed to read the mood well for once, gripping his waist under the water and pulling Larsson into his lap. Their lips collided as if they were simply picking up where they’d left off at the altar.    
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn this was....like a crack chapter, idek. I hope you have fun with it, though. I got some lols writing it.   
> Also why did I make Rekkles such a tsundere brat I'm so fucking sorry.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading my garbage, lots of love <3


	7. Going Rogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcin begins to carry out his mission against his own monarchy.

Under the cover of darkness, Rasmus carefully scrawled out a secret directive. There was no time to let the ink dry. He blew out the candle on the table in his study and neatly folded up the parchment. He carefully tied the tiny, cylindrical attaché to his falcon’s leg. And with a signal of his hand, sent the trained bird on its mission - to deliver a message destined only for the eyes of Alfonso. 

Meanwhile, they had a bulletin of their own to intercept. 

The other three got into position around the main gates of the fortress. The moonlight was the only thing to guide them. They stayed low, undetectable in the shadows as a heavily guarded carriage was escorted out of the gates and across the bridge that passed over the expansive moat. The target was in their sights. From a lofty perch, high up on the rampart, Mihael set an arrow in his bow and pulled back, waiting patiently for the opportune moment. With expert aim, he let go, and the arrow struck the coachman squarely in the shoulder. 

As the man screamed in pain, the horses came to a halt. That was the cue for the other pair. The sentries that flanked the convoy unsheathed their swords, bracing for battle. Hansen rushed in from the right, mace in hand, and hit one of the guards full force on the side of his helmet, knocking him out cleanly before he had a chance to parry. Jankowski came around from the other side, sword drawn, and clashed weapons with the soldiers, fending them off side by side with Hansen. It was two against three, but Mihael had already grabbed another arrow from his quiver, pulling the string taut. The projectile incapacitated another enemy, piercing the vulnerable joint at the back of his knee. 

Marcin skillfully disarmed his opponent, pointing his blade at his throat.

“Stand down. This errand is not worth your undoing. We aren’t here to kill you, we’re here for what you’ve got hiding in that carriage,” Jankowski reasoned.

The guard’s fearful eyes could be seen through the visor of his helmet as he quivered in terror at the two mysterious rogues standing before him. They both wore harrowing venetian masks to hide their faces.

“Who are you?”

“Just a couple of Good Samaritans,” Hansen answered.

The emissaries stood down, allowing them to make off with the carriage themselves. They rode for many miles out into a predetermined meeting point in the middle of the woods, far beyond the bounds of any nobleman. There, they entrusted the bounty to a group of vigilantes, who knew the stead well, and could safely disperse the wealth among the commoners. That carriage held a chest, filled to the brim with gold coins. It was a portion of the dowry that Carlos had already promised to another kingdom in exchange for slaves and alcohol. But Marcin had predicted his move, and cooperated with his troops who were of rural origin to arrange a more dignified way to delegate the spoils.

  
  


\---------------------------------------

“Feeling rather lazy today, aren’t we young sire,” Lord Carlos asked doubtfully.

He stood over Marcin, who was napping peacefully under the shade of a tree, his arms crossed behind his head. 

“We all have those days,” he yawned.

“I would think you’d have the conscience to show at least a little concern, Marcin.”

“Concern for what?”

“A quarter of the dowry was stolen last night. I ordered it be sent out to our Eastern neighbors, and some lowly bandits made off with the entirety of it, carriage, horses and all!”

“Might I ask what you were sending away for...without my permission,” he added curtly. 

“Horses, weapons, ore - more things for your highness’s glorious conquest,” he said.

Marcin knew it was a blatant lie, almost to the point of flattery - trying to play to his indulgence in war. It disgusted him, but he couldn’t reveal it.

“It’s fine. Our army already reigns supreme. We’ll cut our losses when we plunder other neighboring countries,” he said, trying to appease the greedy advisor.

The councilman marched off, clearly unsatisfied with the King’s calm demeanor. 

\-----------------------------------------

King Larsson found himself struggling to fill his days with meaning. All of the other nobles in the castle barred him from participating in any form of governing duties. And there wasn’t much else left for him to do. He often kept himself holed up in his tower, reading or daydreaming about his past life. It was odd, getting all dressed up every morning for nobody but himself, but at least Rasmus frequently kept him company. Winther wasn’t like the other boys, and carried out a position very similar to his post in Larsson’s kingdom. He spent hours pouring over maps, and organizing their forces strategically - like a game of chess. He infrequently trained in brute skills like the other knights, which was one of the many things that he and Martin had in common. 

That’s why the King was somewhat surprised when Rasmus stopped by that afternoon, trying to convince him to go out to the training grounds. 

“I’m not interested in being converted into one of his little pawns,” Martin scoffed.

“Not to train, only to watch. It’s usually good fun. Besides, wouldn’t you be pleased to see him knocked off his horse,” Winther nudged.

The blonde shook his head and laughed. 

“Fine, I’ll come.”

\--------------------------------------

The two headed out to the arena where Mihael, Hansen and Marcin were practising together as they typically would. As they walked up to the fence, he could see them all in full armour, and it reminded him of the very first time Jankowski came to his homeland to warn him. He still questioned if the peculiar prince’s intentions had been good all along. 

As soon as Marcin spotted the red glimmer of the crown headed his way, he yanked the reigns of his horse, trotting over to the edge of the corral to meet them. He pulled off his helmet, smiling down at Martin. 

“Did the princess come to offer me a token,” he cooed mockingly.

“He doesn’t deserve one. He loses every time,” Mihael called as he leaned up against the rail, watching Hansen and Jankowski joust. 

“What can I say...Hansen is a mighty opponent,” he shrugged.

Martin searched his person for a moment, thinking of what he could possibly offer. He was wearing a ring that he’d taken from his home, one that had been passed down through various heirs. He slipped it off of his finger and held it up for Marcin.

“Here, a token, for my knight in shining armour,” he said sarcastically.

Marcin looked rather surprised that the prince was playing along, but he freed one of his fingers from his gauntlet to put it on. He hoisted up his lance and trotted over to the opposite end of the field. Mihael announced the countdown and the two men charged towards each other, spurring their mounts as fast as they could go. As they crossed paths, the loud sound of wood splintering on metal rang out. Hansen’s lance clipped Marcin’s shoulder, but the king had managed to place his hit perfectly center on the knight’s chest, forcibly dismounting him as the impact knocked him off of his horse. 

“Holy shit,” Mihael exclaimed.

Rasmus’s jaw dropped, and he looked at his friend incredulously. Hansen sat up from where he fell, and removed his helmet. Even he looked flabbergasted. 

“What’s the big deal? Isn’t that the objective,” Martin stated, unimpressed.

“Marcin never beats Hansen at jousting. Not to mention, nobody has ever unhorsed Hansen -  _ ever, _ ” Mihael explained.

“I think we’ve just witnessed a miracle, boys,” Hansen announced as he stood up and walked it off.

Marcin pulled off his helmet, glowing under the midday sun. He felt the ring on his finger and glanced at Martin, feeling proud of himself. Although he didn’t understand why, in the heat of the moment, he felt different, knowing that the other king was watching. There was a resolve that he had never experienced in practice, as if the only choice was to come out on top. It was the same adrenaline rush that motivated him on the battlefield, all to impress a guy that saw his whole sport as a character flaw. Futile. He began to think that perhaps he should try to win Larsson over in a manner more suited to him. 

\-------------------------------------------------

“Hey, what happened to the ring I gave you the other day,” Martin asked with a concerned tone as he noticed the prince’s bare hands.

“Oh, it’s here,” Marcin said calmly.

He had strung it on a necklace, and kept it tucked under his shirt. 

“Knights aren’t permitted to wear rings,” he explained.

Martin rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Ok, ok. It doesn’t get in the way of my armour like this,” Marcin recovered, telling him what he wanted to hear, “but I was wishing you would let me keep it. I think it’s a good luck charm.”

Larsson thought about it for a moment, but nodded in agreement. 

“Sure. As long as you keep it safe.”

“I was hoping you would say that, so I had something made for you in return.”

He pulled out a small, silk bag, embroidered with beautiful patterns, and handed it over to Martin. Larsson eyed him suspiciously before accepting it, and carefully opened the sachet. It was a delicate ring with an inscription engraved on the inside of the band. It was strung upon a necklace, the same as Marcin’s. 

“It’s uh...nice,” he said, finding it difficult to compliment him in this rare moment of intimacy, “but why on a chain?”

“Well, I figured you’d be ashamed to wear anything that’s a personal gift from me. And it’s easier to hide this way. But also because when the day finally comes for us to fight side by side, you’ll be a knight, too,” he smiled weakly.

“...Ashamed,” he murmured, his voice downcast, “you’re the one who doesn’t wear your crown.”

Marcin’s eyes widened at the realization that something like that might have been bothering Martin. 

“I’m sorry. I thought you wouldn’t want me being associated with your motherland,” he admitted.

“Is that how you feel when I wear this,” Martin asked, reaching up to take off the ruby crown.

Marcin took the crown from his hands, and for a moment, Larsson felt dejected.

“No,” he paused to brush a stray strand of Martin’s hair and gently placed the crown back on his head, “I feel proud.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some action finally, right? For a knight story we need more action, I think. But interspersed with cheesy romance. Yeah...  
> ANYWAYS, thank you for reading. Can you spot the meta origins? lol


	8. Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It only takes *a little* coercion to convince Martin to learn how to fight.

From that day forward, any time Jankowski wasn’t covered head to toe in armour, he wore the sapphire crown that Martin gave to him. Even when it drew the attention of his comrades.

“You’re not letting that overindulged princess get the best of you, are you,” Hansen teased.

“What? Oh  _ this _ ?”

“Yeah, you’re seriously wearing a tiara to practise archery? You never even wore your own crown.”

“Well, he wears mine, so...I believe it’s fair,” he said, not wanting to confess too much.

“Don’t you think that he purely does it because he’s too prideful a king not to wear regalia and now it’s the only one he has? Of course he’ll wear it,” Mihael added, effortlessly hitting a bullseye on the target. 

“Is it such a terrible thing for some of his habits to rub off on me? Maybe I can stand to be more monarchical,” he defended.

“With any luck your habits will influence him, too,” Rasmus agreed, “you could both stand to balance each other out.”

Marcin scoffed. 

“Hell will freeze over before he’d take up a sword,” Hansen voiced the unspoken, yet resounding sentiment.

“He has one, you know. One of the finest claymores I’ve ever seen, in fact,” Marcin commented.

Hansen made a comically grotesque face.

“We don’t need to hear about your sexual escapades, your majesty,” he said cynically.

Jankowski unnotched the arrow he was about to fire and jabbed his friend in the arm with it mischievously.

“You’re filthy,” he laughed. 

Mihael shook his head, sighing at their idiocy.

“I’m sure if he has a blade, it’s nothing more than a mantlepiece,” the brunette replied.

“Let’s go find out for ourselves, then,” Rasmus smirked. 

\------------------------

When Martin heard a knock at his chamber door, he eagerly climbed down from his reading spot in the upper loft. He was expecting to see Rasmus, but as soon as he undid the latch, the door was kicked in violently, and a sack was placed over his head, obscuring his vision of the assailants. His wrists and ankles were tightly bound and he was seized roughly by the arms before being dragged out of his room. He grunted and struggled, writhing wildly to try and free himself, but he was outnumbered. He heard other footsteps trailing closely behind him. 

He continued struggling like a fish out of water. But they forced him to march on for a long time. They led him out of the castle and into the sun, until the kidnappers relented, pushing him to the ground. Only the trodden soil broke his fall. They yanked the sack off of his head, relishing in his unsettled appearance, his hair ruffled and his crown in the dirt. Familiar, smug laughter finally registered, and he opened his wincing eyes. His vision focused and he saw Mihael and Hansen standing over him imperiously.

“You bastards,” he cursed under his breath.

“Oh no, the princess has been captured. Who ever shall save her,” Mihael cooed teasingly.

“Perhaps you, Rasmus,” Hansen asked.

Larsson twisted his neck around to see his friend, sitting calmly by Jankowski’s side atop some square bales. He shook his head quietly. 

“No? Then surely you, Marcin,” the chevalier inquired.

The king slowly stood from his spot and paced with calculated steps until he stood before the helpless prince. He shrugged and threw his stolen sword at his feet. 

“Nope.”

And with that, the four men abandoned him there. 

\----------------------------------------

“How long do you think it will take him,” Mihael grinned.

“Not sure, but when the sun starts to set, I’m getting him out of there,” Rasmus said.

“I see you have a lot of faith in your friend,” Hansen chuckled.

Jankowski laughed along, but was painfully interrupted by the blow of a sheathed sword as it boomeranged into the back of his head with blunt force. He gripped the spot in irritation as he swung around to see a very agitated Larsson. 

“Jesus christ - it’s a blade, not a throwing stick,” Marcin yelled. 

“Never turn thy back upon a foe,” he said, spitefully reciting one of the knight’s most important commandments.

“Decent timing -  _ and  _ a good arm. I’m impressed,” Hansen conceded, applauding softly.

Jankowski picked up Larsson’s weapon and handed it back to him. 

“It honestly is a lovely sword. It’d be a shame for it to go to waste,” he said encouragingly.

Suddenly, Martin was caught up in the memory of Alfonso presenting him with it, the last time he saw him. He recalled the words he spoke about fitting in...and he hesitantly decided that maybe it wouldn’t hurt to try.

“Fine, then. Teach me.” 

\----------------------------

Martin sat back on his bed with an unamused expression as Marcin rummaged through his wardrobe.

“Do you not have _ any  _ plain clothes,” he asked in ridicule, “there’s no way you can fight properly in formalwear.”

“There was never any need.”

“No wonder your army gradually started to fall. What morale could they possibly hold onto with a leader whose sole purpose is to sit and look pretty,” Jankowski scoffed.

Larsson didn’t respond. He had official duties that went beyond simply existing as an authority figure. But Marcin was stubborn, and he knew any explanation would be falling on deaf ears. 

“Follow me,” Marcin said, carefully checking the halls as they made their way to his room.

He was aware that the council was currently busy with proceedings, which bought them some time to be alone together. But they still had to tread lightly. They reached the safety of his chamber undetected and it dawned on Martin that this was the first time he had ever been there. It was so empty in comparison to his own space. It was vacant save for a bed, a few barren shelves, and a wardrobe. 

“You don’t even have a mirror in here? That...explains a lot,” Martin said cynically.

Jankowski laughed, realizing he was probably right. He pulled out some clothes, hardly different from the garb of peasants, and threw them at the other monarch.

“Here, put these on.”

Larsson eyed the modest linen tunic with distaste, but carefully began stripping himself of his current attire. By the time he was nearly down to his braies, he at least expected Jankowski to stop gawking at him. He shot him an irritated glance. But Marcin was too lost in his own thoughts, having noticed that Martin was actually wearing the necklace that he had given him. Now that he was undressed, he could see that he had been hiding it under his vest the entire time. 

“Do you mind?”

“Not in the slightest, your highness,” he replied slyly.

Martin sighed, and spun around for the sake of his own privacy, hastily pulling off his own pants and hopping into Jankowski’s. He slipped the plain chemise over his head and tried somehow to adjust the loose-fitting clothing into something more refined, but it was no use. He turned back around to face Marcin.

“Well? Don’t you find it more comfortable,” he asked.

“Nobody would recognize my status…”

The First Blood King walked over to him, and tilted his chin up, his fingertips gently pressing into his jawline. 

“You don’t need finery to be revered. Your beauty is more than enough,” he said charmingly.

He looked down at the ring, hanging like an amulet around Martin’s delicate neck. Larsson quickly blushed, clutching at it through his shirt as if to hide it, knowing he had been exposed. 

“I-it’s only out of etiquette, since you’ve been wearing your crown,” he blurted out shyly.

Jankowski smirked, their faces only inches apart. But Martin had his own way of wiping that self-righteous expression off of his features, as he leaned in and closed the gap between their lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took every ounce of strength in my body to not make him say "1 v 1 me, bro" after he threw the sword at his head. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and supporting the story so far <3


	9. Strife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truths come out.  
> Battles are fought.

Rasmus and Larsson rode alongside each other until they reached the large, empty corral. The king was relieved it was just the two of them that day. He’d been training with all of the others for the past couple of weeks, and his patience was wearing thin due to his lack of alone time. But Rasmus was someone he could tolerate until the end of time. Nobody knew his limits better.

If there was one knightly discipline Martin had confidence in, it was his horsemanship. In the world of nobility, the common denominator of all monarchs was making a grand entrance, and this almost always involved parading through villages on a handsome palfrey. However, today would be his first time trying his hand at jousting. The lance felt awkward and bulky from the moment he picked it up. He realized that balancing the polearm would be a lot more difficult than it looked. They started off with simple aim practice. 

“Alright. For now, try and ride as fast as you can, staying as close to the tilt as possible. When you get close, I’ll toss up a ring. Try to hook it with the end of your lance,” Winther instructed calmly.

The prince nodded. 

During the first few attempts, he couldn’t manage to properly cradle the spear while simultaneously trying to counterbalance the gait of his horse. If he didn’t push his mount hard enough, he’d be caught in an uncomfortable canter, tossing his body too wildly to aim. He either missed his target miserably, or dropped the lance before he could levee. Finally, after what felt like a hundred attempts, he finally managed to loop one.

His brow dripped with sweat from the physical exertion and he panted for air. He was thankful for the lightweight clothing he’d been forced to wear since he began training, despite how plain it was. 

“Good work,” Rasmus beamed.

“Better from where you’re standing,” he laughed, trying to catch his breath.

“Marcin probably still can’t catch a ring, so you should be proud.”

Next came the quintain. A rotating target that was counterbalanced with a massive sandbag. If he hit the target before gaining enough speed, the post would spin and catch him in the back. And that it did - many, many times. He wasn’t knocked from his horse every shot, but it only took a few tumbles to the ground for him to never want to get hit by the weighted bag again. He fell to the dirt, landing on the flat of his back, his crown flinging off somewhere in the distance for the dozenth time. 

“Now do you see why my Lord doesn’t like to wear his crown,” Rasmus shouted from his comfortable spot on the fence.

\--------------------------------------

They lay side by side in the grass, looking up at the clouds from under the shade of a tree. It made Larsson feel nostalgic for the familiar times they’d spent together. 

“I’ve been avoiding the subject,” he trailed softly, as he gazed up at the sky, “because I think a part of me doesn’t want to ask, but why did you leave me?”

Rasmus’s expression became crestfallen and he turned over on his side, propping up his cheek with his hand. The prince noted how innocent he appeared, the way his palm slightly smushed the side of his face, resembling some cute woodland creature - like a squirrel. His image was at odds with the cunning mind beneath, more akin to a fox. 

“I knew…”

“Knew what?”

“About the deceitful nature of your council.”

Martin’s eyes widened.

“All this time they’ve been….?”

“Working against you, yeah,” Rasmus answered, “it came to a point where I realized I had to get out. They were exploiting our friendship. And I ran away to be a martyr, only for the sake of defending your honor. It was a difficult decision, but…I didn’t want to be a part of their masquerade,” he explained with an ache in his voice, the kind that comes along with reopening old wounds.

“And when you say  _ exploiting... _ ?”

“They were extorting information from me. If I didn’t comply, there were times they would resort to torture to get what they wanted,” he paused, swallowing down painful memories, “Any time I accompanied you to meet with political allies, in other words, our friends in neighboring countries - The advisors demanded every detail. There were a few occasions that they used the information your fellow rulers had confided in you to initiate conflict behind your back. Conflict against our partners.”

The king recalled various skirmishes his kingdom had engaged in that seemed senseless or unprovoked. Bonds that had endured for many years that were broken due to one reason or another, now becoming clear. There was usually little explanation offered to him. Some fabled excuses, or means to justify retaliation. But was there ever any true cause aside from the greed of his royal party.

“You mean...the battle on the Hispanian border with Enrique’s men….was....”

Rasmus frowned, nodding his head.

“And Fabian, in the Dutch Republic. Those are the two that stand out the most,” he explained sadly, “whether they had divulged any secret resources to you, or plans that coincided with those of your cabinet...whatever their twisted motive was, it was all for avarice. As your friend, it was painful for me to watch you lose longtime companions over the trifles of your committee. It was too hard to continue being forced to take part in your undoing.” 

“I can’t believe I never realized. I’m such a fool, being played like a pawn in my own court,” he shook his head in disbelief, staring at the grass in shame. 

Guilt weighed heavily on his conscience. He was right to mourn for Winther all this time, for the horrors that he endured under his inexperienced and naive ‘rulership’, if it could even be called that. He wasn’t fit to be a king. But now more than ever, he yearned to have his revenge exacted. All of the apologies in the world could never make up for the suffering of his comrade, but he reached out and took Rasmus’s hand. He kissed the back of the brunette’s fingers as a promise, staring steadfast into his eyes with resolve.

“They’ll reap what they sow.” 

\-----------------------------------

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Martin - Hansen, Mihael and Marcin were headed into battle. Some insurgencies had arisen on the Southern border and they were obligated to respond. Maintaining an ever expanding border was a never-ending task. During the symbolic ceasefire that followed the royal wedding, the South had taken the opportunity to push in their defenses, consuming multiple towns. They plundered and pillaged as they went. Losing territory to the enemy was nothing new, but now that Marcin was feeling the pressure to win over the trust of his serfs, he had to win the grounds back on behalf of his people. 

He led his cavalry through the battered villages, witnessing the aftermath of the gruesome onslaught against his civilians. Many lay dead, rotting in the streets, living quarters were burned to the ground. Orphaned children wandered cobblestone roads, stuck in a reel of eternal loss. His blood boiled with anger and sorrow. These innocent people perished while he was off engaging in political pageantry. 

Enemy troops hadn’t been expecting them, but the thunderous rumbling of a mounted army approaching from the distance was unmistakable. They rallied their men, saddling up and readying their weapons. Jankowski didn’t allow them the chance to fully organize, rushing the charge with Hansen and Mihael close at his side. They tore through the scattered men like fire scorching its way through dry brush, mercilessly cutting them down. The further they stampeded, the more chaotic things became, with mounted soldiers charging in from various angles. 

Mihael’s aim never failed, not even on horseback, expertly landing his arrows perfectly between the exposed joints of his enemy’s armour. He galloped ahead with apathy as he passed, hearing them wretch and choke on their own blood as he shot through the exposed space at their collar. Because he killed with ranged weapons, Mihael was proudly known for always escaping battle in pristine condition, not a speck of crimson tainting his plate nor his alabaster steed. Whereas Jankowski was quite the opposite, earning him his title as the First Blood King. As the lead person riding in on the charge, he often took the first kill, running men through with his sword, bathing himself and his blade in visceral red. Hansen was easily the strongest, preferring to use maces and battle axes to maim and unhorse his victims, famously coming off the field with the most executions. That day was no exception, they would be the clear victors. 

As Marcin circled back to regroup with his troops, he was unexpectedly charged from both directions by two enemies. At the last moment, he had to pick a side to fend off, leaving the right of his body entirely vulnerable. As he parried off the warrior’s strike from the left, the other attacker aimed his poleaxe, driving it into Jankowski at full speed. It pierced his armour with an ear shattering impact that rocked his whole torso, even tipping his horse off balance. The staff broke off, leaving the axe head deeply embedded in his abdomen. It happened so quickly that he went into shock, not even registering the wound in time to scream. Instead, all the breath left his lungs, and he grunted weakly, losing consciousness as he slumped sideways off of his mount.

Both knights immediately rushed to the aid of their fallen King, carefully lifting his body to prop him up in the archer’s saddle. He held the prince’s limp frame steady as he rode back to the castle with all the haste he could muster, Hansen close in tow. That day Mihael would not be riding back unblemished, but rather, soaked in the blood of his majesty. His white horse, stained like a ghastly spectre, carrying them off to the underworld.    
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to say that writing this is great because I get to abuse all of my bad habits like passive voice and dangling modifiers and feel like it makes sense. But I'm sorry for all of the people who respect the finer points of grammar and read my stuff. Thanks for tolerating my poetic bullshit.
> 
> Thank you guys for the kudos and comments <3 Lots of love!


	10. Rushed Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They never told us what happens when the princess doesn't want to be rescued.

Rasmus and Larsson had just returned to the castle as Mihael burst through the doors at the end of the main hall, Marcin groaning in agony in his arms. Hansen called for the medic while Mihael quickly carried him to one of the bathing rooms. The knights scrambled to get him out of his armour until he was stripped out of every piece save for the one the axe was stuck in. The doctor came in soon after, with a very concerned Winther and Martin following closely. 

Martin fell to his side, gripping the prince’s hand tightly. Mihael tilted Marcin’s head up carefully, holding a small vial of an opium tonic to his lips, forcing the barely conscious man to drink it. The surgeon didn’t waste any time, ripping the chestpiece from the king and dislodging the weapon along with it. Rasmus knelt on the other side, applying pressure to the wound with thick rolls of linen. The doctor grabbed a bottle of strong alcohol and liberally doused the wound. Marcin whimpered and thrashed in anguish as it stung the raw flesh. Stitch by stitch, the doctor rushed to sew up the wound, treating it with honey before tightly bandaging his entire waist. 

“You boys are lucky he made it after traveling back here. You shouldn’t be so impulsive when choosing your battles ill-prepared,” the medic chided, “had the wound been much deeper, he would have been gone within minutes.”

The dried blood sat starkly against Marcin’s pronounced pallor. By now the opium had long lulled him to sleep, and Martin sat around him with the other knights. He doted over him and cleaned all of the filth off of his skin with wet rags until he was spotless. He stared at Hansen with distrust as the tall man carefully lifted Jankowski off the bathroom floor, carrying him to his bedroom where he could rest properly. All Martin felt towards the two men was bitterness. Neither had spoken a word. They never told him they’d be going into battle and they didn’t offer any explanation now that everything had gone awry. It made him irrationally angry, being kept out of the loop just like in his previous kingdom, as if he didn’t deserve to know. 

“Is anybody gonna tell me what the hell happened,” he demanded, losing his temper as he paced back and forth in the room.

“It’s pretty obvious, no? Sometimes when you fight, you get hit, but I guess you wouldn’t understand that, your majesty,” Hansen replied in annoyance.

“It happens to the best of us. Every time he rides out, he’s already weighed that risk. Granted, none of us have been injured this badly before,” Mihael explained, equally unfazed.

“ _ Nothing  _ was ‘weighed’. You’re just a bunch of reckless idiots,” he sighed in frustration.

“Aside from this, what were the casualties,” Winther asked curiously.

“Dozens wounded, but I don’t believe we lost any men. We caught them off guard, so it was a relatively quick victory,” Mihael replied, “That’s why it  _ pays  _ to be reckless,” he added pointedly. 

Larsson rolled his eyes. 

“Rasmus, will you return with us to gather our men and hold the frontlines for a while,” Hansen asked.

He nodded in agreement and the three headed out, taking much needed supplies along with them. 

\--------------------------------------------

Martin sat by his side, never once letting go of his hand. Jankowski carried on resting, his breathing shallow and visage still pale. Every now and then, he would stop to check, watching for the feeble rise and fall of his chest, just to be certain. Eventually, he lost track of time, and fell asleep beside him on the bed, their fingers clasped together. Much later, when the sun had long since set, and pervasive darkness engulfed the room, he woke up to the sound of the door latching open. 

It was Lord Carlos, and suddenly Larsson felt panicked. The flickering light of the lantern in Carlos’s hand illuminated the two, laying in bed together -  _ alone. _ Alone like Larsson knew they were forbidden to be, but what could an ailing king possibly be plotting? He sat up defensively as the nobleman stepped into the room. Neither of them spoke a word to each other. Feeling like a stray animal that some keeper had been sent to drag away from its hovel, Martin gripped his partner’s hand tighter, staring at the advisor defiantly. He wasn’t going anywhere. 

Holding the light closer to the bandages, Carlos assessed the damage without a trace of sympathy.

“I suppose you were hoping he’d die,” Larsson said.

“The question is, why aren’t you wishing the same,” he scoffed, “if only your people could see you now. Sharing a bed with your greatest foe...pathetic,” he added contemptuously.

\-----------------------------------------------

In the meantime, his people already had plans underway for their lost King. Well, Alfonso did, that is. Although he had received the secret message to rendezvous from Rasmus’s falcon, he took it with a grain of salt. The man was a defector, after all. And the prince had been trapped in their kingdom for nearly two months now. Alfonso had promised Martin a timely rescue. Additionally, the prince hadn’t written to his general whatsoever, which seemed extremely uncharacteristic. Were they intercepting letters? He had no way of knowing how his old ruler was faring, much less if he was still alive. 

When Alfonso heard from the neighboring kingdom about the attacks at the Southern border, he had to seize the opportune moment. Their monarch was badly wounded, and their forces were diverted. If there was ever a time for an invasion, it would be now. And with the Blood King weakened, Larsson might have the strength to overtake him, claiming the united throne and freedom for himself. He moved with haste to rally his soldiers. There wasn’t a second to spare. It was time to bring his king home. All he could hope was that he wasn’t too late. 

Hundreds of men from the cavalry banded together, marching their way towards Jankowski’s impending castle under the cover of night. Their armour glinted in the moonlight, but the border was sparsely guarded; For one, because the two kingdoms were now supposed to be “peacefully” joined together as one. And secondly, because most of their troops were busying themselves holding the unsettled frontline. 

They easily passed through. The few, confused sentries that stood in their way bowed and conceded, letting them cross. They didn’t think Larsson’s army was coming to fight against them. Perhaps a joining of forces was in order.

As they strode up to the fortress, the foot troops became suspicious. These men hadn’t been sent for. Their infantry was regal, decorated with the blue colors of their enemy. But they didn’t spring to defensive action, lest there be a misunderstanding. After all, this wasn’t the enemy any longer, not since the royal betrothal. And at the very least, Jankowski and Lord Carlos had made good on that promise so far. 

Alfonso and his men stormed the barrier, mounted rangers taking out the gatekeepers with ease. By the time they launched their attack, they were in such close quarters. There was little Marcin’s men could do to keep them out. 

Marcin awoke, pained and in a cold sweat. He clutched his seeping wound as he sat up too quickly. He heard screams outside, and the unmistakable thunder of hooves on stone. He registered the weight of a body lying next to him, Martin was asleep at his side, still refusing to let go of his hand. But something was very wrong here. Was he imagining things? The medicine perhaps, or maybe he lost too much blood? Fever delirium? Larsson stirred, looking up tiredly and smiling at his risen prince. Then he heard the noises, too. He shot up, confused. 

“What’s that?! Did the enemy send more infantrymen from the South?”

“I’m not sure. But it’s not good, whatever it is,” he said, groaning as he tried to stand up.

“Be careful,” Marcin stood to help steady him on his feet, “you shouldn’t be moving around yet.”

The shouts of soldiers grew nearer, and they could be heard searching the castle. Doors swung open, hitting stone walls with force. They must have come to finish off Marcin in his weakened state, Larsson thought, feeling utterly defenseless. At that moment, the door was violently torn open. It was Alfonso himself, his face aghast and relieved to have found the man he was looking for. Larsson stared at him, eyes wide with terror. He remembered the promise his General made, but he never thought the day would come. Not like this. He thought Rasmus had been corresponding with him. Why was he here?

Marcin shrugged out of the blonde’s grasp with enough disdain to taint the whole earth. 

“You fucking bastard,” he spat the words venemously.

It tore a hole in Martin’s heart. This was a huge misunderstanding, but it was something he couldn’t take back. Who knew how many of Marcin’s men had already been slain at the hands of his own people.

“My prince,” Alfonso spoke. 

He looked him up and down, hardly recognizing him in meager peasant clothes, stripped of his usual regalia. Is this how they’d been making him live? 

“We’ve come to retrieve you. You know what must be done.”

Martin looked at Jankowski, who, even in his poor condition, stood his ground. He refused to die a groveling dog. 

“I can take care of this detail for you, if you prefer, your majesty,” Alfonso spoke calmly, drawing his sword and stepping towards a cornered Marcin.

But he was frozen in his tracks. Martin raised the very sword the general had gifted to him months earlier, the tip pressed threatening to his throat. He looked down at his own shocked expression, reflected in the exquisite blade that was poised to end his life at any moment. 

"Your highness, what's gotten into you?"

"I know you're trying to do a noble thing, coming here to rescue me. But you're mistaken. Stand down and retreat."

"Larsson, there are strict orders from the council. I must bring you home - dead or alive" 

"I'll come willingly, but only if you call off the assault and promise to leave him unharmed."

"Have you lost your mind? He's the enemy! You don’t think he’d run you through given the chance?”

Martin frowned, never once lowering his sword as he circled around his former advisor, placing himself in front of Marcin protectively. Alfonso sighed and stepped back in resignation, resheathing his weapon in renouncement. 

“Fine, we’ll leave him. But you’d better have a grand excuse prepared for Zafra,” he huffed, “let’s go.”

Jankowski could only watch as Larsson spared him one sorrowful glance before he turned to leave with the general. He wanted him to stay, even to the point of begging him not to go. But he had too much pride for that. And if he tried to keep the prince against his will - well, that would make him the monstrous captor they believed him to be. Had Martin really felt like a hostage this whole time?    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More cliffhangers and plot twists for you.  
> Thank you for reading, lovelies.


	11. Comedown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the invasion left two very different courses of action for the princes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, this chapter is pretty violent. Warnings for gore and general angst.   
> As always, thank you for your support, and I hope you enjoy <3

The scenery was a wash of blue toned greys, like the stone of his castle was weeping that night, long into the dawn. The only color Jankowski saw as he hobbled through his courtyard was the vermilion blood, pooling around the bodies that were strewn about the estate and penetrating the bandage wrapped tightly around his fresh wound. Did they truly have intentions of conquering his territory? It seemed evident in their merciless approach. Perhaps it was the case that they were destined to be enemies. No marriage could change that. 

Martin deliberately chose not to kill him, but Marcin heard what the general said... _ he knew what had to be done. _ Which meant that Martin was aware of his council’s plot to raid the castle and take Jankowski out in the process, but he never once spoke a word of warning. Nor issued a letter to his kin, nor did anything to stop it. Maybe he had been awaiting that moment, but when push came to shove he found himself unable to carry the mission to term. 

Negative thoughts plagued Marcin. His hopes for their bright future together, one where they owned their own destinies, that flame was extinguished now. Before their union, those were all petty dreams of a boy in over his head. But Larsson was the key, the catalyst he found necessary for his New World Order. Yet still the prince was - wherever he was - likely nothing more than fodder for his Duke. It was a painfully ironic reminder when Marcin thought they were meant for something greater than that,  _ together _ . 

For a long time, even if his power wasn’t absolute, Jankowski always shined in his reign. He had his pride, at the very least. But not that night. The first blood king bled first. And it left him feeling crushed.

\----------------------------

Martin rebuffed the image he was met with as he was led back into his own court by Alfonso. The Duke was perched arrogantly upon  _ his  _ throne. 

"Prince Larsson. How nice to see you...alive," the last word fell off his lips snidely, “I'm impressed that you managed to survive those barbarians. Although I will say, you look worse for wear, sir."

“You’d be surprised. I found myself in better company with them than here,” he replied spitefully.

“A pity they’re dead, then.”

Martin narrowed his eyes, avoiding the matter altogether. 

"As you can imagine I assumed the head position over the court in your absence. Don’t worry, I was merely keeping it warm for you,” he smiled slyly, getting up to pat the plush chair invitingly. 

It made Larsson’s stomach churn.

\---------------------------------------------

Jankowski sat in one of the gardens with his knees pulled to his chest, a handful of corpses rotting around him in the twilight. There was no telling how long he waited there, for his men to come home, for anyone to pull him out of his melancholy. And nobody ever came, but the sun did rise. Surely as it always did. And the golden rays warmed his soul as they washed over his sullen face. On the very literal bright side, more than half of his treacherous council was taken care of for him. But he was certain that there was still some cleaning up to do. Which meant he had business to attend to. It was time to rebuild that new future. And what better place to start than from the ground up? 

The prince pushed himself off the floor, wincing as he steadied on his feet, the injury in his side stretching painfully. He made his way back towards the inside of the castle with purpose, stopping only for a moment to bend down, taking a sword off of one of his fallen guards. Propping the blade on his shoulder, he wandered the corridors, in search of one man. As fate would have it, he didn’t have to look very far. 

Lord Carlos spotted him first, running towards his king with utterances of retaliation. 

“Jankowski! We cannot show weakness at a time like this. You must command your men to strike back. Now,” he ordered.

“Pfft. Strike back,” he repeated the words, unaffected.

“Don’t be a fool, Marcin! You know who’s responsible for -”

Carlos’s decapitated head hit the ground before he could even finish his sentence, and the king dropped the stained sword with an air of finality. He understood well who was responsible. And it wasn’t Martin. For all Jankowski thought, the Lord brought this ruin upon himself from the day he started negotiating in affairs best left undone. If Larsson was the serpent, then by all accounts, Carlos was the reason he had come to their garden of eden to begin with. The coddled prince had been happy where he was. And so was Marcin, equally burying himself in the comfort of ignorant bliss - before unscrupulous men started acting on their behalf. Carlos was responsible, responsible for bringing this man that Marcin loved so dearly, only to have him stolen away, and he paid for it in blood. 

\-----------------------------------------

For the next few days, Larsson never took up his throne. The idea of it left a bad taste in his mouth. He wore the ring around his neck without fail, idly fidgeting with it while he cooped himself up in his room, trying to distract his troubled mind with a book. But even the legendary Tolkien wasn’t enough to soothe him. 

He barely had the will to raise his head as Alfonso gently pushed open the door. 

“Prince,” he began softly, sitting at the foot of the bed, “I have bad news. Zafra is suspicious of Jankowski’s whereabouts. He doesn’t believe you killed him. He’s sending out men for reconnaissance.” 

“Then let him.”

“When he finds out he’s alive, there will be nowhere for us to run,” the general said sternly.

The king sighed heavily, closing his novel and setting it aside. He looked down at the inscribed ring and ran his thumb over the twinkling metal. It caught his friend’s eye, but he didn’t mention it.

“If I may ask, your highness…”

“Hm?” Martin raised a brow.

“Why did you protect Jankowski?”

His crystalline eyes became clouded and he smiled weakly.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

The officer raised his eyebrows daringly.

“I wanted to stay with him,” he replied wistfully.

Alfonso looked guilty, suddenly unable to meet his ruler’s gaze.

“Then I suppose they weren’t holding you prisoner there?”

Martin paused to glance out the window, the glistening sunshine felt so contrary to his mood. He shook his head softly.

“In a way, they tried to teach me how to be free - from bureaucracy, anyway. But seeing as I’m here, I guess I was unteachable,” he said defeatedly.

“Nonsense. You were always a brilliant academic,” Alfonso teased, trying to cheer up his companion.

Martin smiled inwardly, thinking about the rowdy group of knights.

“You know, you’d make an excellent knight, Alfonso.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t speak to me with such romanticism. You’ve been burying your head in too many books,” he laughed. 

\----------------------------------

“Do you refuse to sit on your throne just to spite me,” the Duke asked impatiently, “and where is your crown?”

“I preferred the ruby one,” he replied defiantly.

“Your sentiment disgusts me. That alliance was dissolved before you even set foot on the altar.”

“You’re the one who had me married off. The least you could do is respect it,” the king answered boredly, as if Zafra’s complaints weren’t worth the time of day. 

\----------------------------------

As soon as affairs died down at the border, most of Jankowski’s men were able to return to the fortress. The casualties that his garrison had suffered at the hands of Larsson’s invasion were small in the grand scheme of things. And the fact that most of those who perished were noblemen he had long grown tired of helped to ease his conscience. The castle was spotless by the time his knights returned, and they would never have guessed what happened in their absence. But the eerie emptiness of his court was a dead giveaway. 

The prince’s lacerations had been healing nicely, and he owed it to the heavens that his doctor had been spared in the massacre. He was so relieved to be surrounded by his friends again. He couldn’t recall the last time he felt so lonely. All that empty time did nothing for him except allow his thoughts to run wild. The only thing he could focus on was Martin. He wondered if he was okay or if he ever stopped to think about him, too. While he spent most of his time bedridden, waiting for his wounds to scar over, he picked up a book that Larsson had left behind. He often saw him reading this one, and the prince always kept it by his bedside. It was one of Tolkien’s pieces. He clutched the ring around his neck while he read it, still unable to blame the prince for all that happened.

\------------------------------

“Where is everyone,” Rasmus asked curiously.

The chevaliers all gathered in Jankowski’s room, visiting him as soon as they returned.

“A lot of them are dead. Good riddance,” he said plainly.

“Dead?! What happened here? Where is King Larsson,” the short man exclaimed.

“They came to take him back. His army overran this place. But they retreated shortly after.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t gone after him,” Hansen added.

“There’s no point. He must not have been happy here,” the king lamented.

Rasmus found that difficult to believe, but he didn’t want to push the subject.

“Did they get Carlos,” Mihael asked quietly.

“No, of course they didn’t. I knew the rat would probably be hiding somewhere. I went and took care of him myself.”

The men exchanged looks of stunned silence. But they understood. There wouldn’t have been a more opportune moment. And if anyone had objected, he could always place blame on the enemy. Furthermore, they all wanted him dead just as much as their prince had. It felt like they were one step closer to rebuilding the kingdom they had all dreamed of. But the loss of King Larsson had clearly put a damper on their monarch’s positive outlook. 

“What will you do now,” Hansen asked.

“Well,” he sighed, “we can do whatever we want now. And as soon as I’m better, I’ll do my best to become a great leader. We can begin demilitarizing and focus more on our citizens.”

“Demilitarize,” Mihael asked incredulously, “you’re not going to take revenge?”

“No. Our army just went through enough in the South. And I’ve got nothing to gain from attacking Larsson’s kingdom. We already got the dowry, and all they did was slaughter most of the people I despised anyhow. I’d say they got the short end of the stick. Besides, we’ll maintain our dignity by upholding our end of the matrimonial treaty.” 

“But you’re not married any-”

“I’m not changing my mind,” he interrupted Hansen grimly.

\---------------------------------------

“Jankowski is alive! You sniveling liar,” Zafra hissed with disdain as sentries rushed in to seize up Martin.

Two other soldiers dragged Alfonso in violently, his feet grazing the floor. 

“Tell me the truth or your general’s life ends here,” the Duke threatened.

“Leave him alone! He had nothing to do with it,” Larsson said, trying to wrench himself free of his captors.

“Then tell me how your target got away. Please, enlighten me,” he said, walking to stand directly in front of the prince, gripping his jaw and forcing him to meet his gaze.

“As I’m sure you were aware, their King was already mortally wounded in battle earlier that day,” he began fabricating his lie, anything he could think of to spare his friend from danger, “the injury was extensive. So, I staged his death using the laceration that already existed. We undid his bandages and re-opened the wound. He lay on the floor and pretended to be lifeless. It was convincing, I swear to it. And Alfonso didn’t question anything by the time he found us.”

The Duke sucked in a frustrated breath of air through his teeth, punching the helpless prince square in the gut. He gasped for air as the wind left his lungs. 

“Was this the way of it, Alfonso?”

The officer nodded solemnly, not wanting to disgrace his king’s selfless efforts to cover for him.

“I can only apologize for my unwitting nature.”

“Release him,” Zafra commanded, and the guards let go of the shaken advisor.

“You can apologize by locking his majesty in the dungeon,” he commanded, stopping to look at Martin, “and  _ you, _ you’re lucky you’re worth more to me alive than dead - for now.”

  
  
  



	12. Divide and Conquer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The knights go on a rescue mission.

The circumstances of Martin’s imprisonment couldn’t be called dire, seeing as he’d always felt like a prisoner with Zafra around. But sitting in a cold, empty cell was certainly a step down. After all, they weren’t planning to kill him yet. However, Zafra undoubtedly took pleasure in making the prince’s life a living hell. And there wasn’t much Alfonso could do for his friend. The guards kept him on a short leash, constantly following him to prevent any further disruptions in their plans. 

Meanwhile in Jankowski’s kingdom, something wasn’t sitting right with Rasmus. Everything about the invasion and the departure of Martin wasn’t adding up. Especially if the council had anything to do with it. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was horribly amiss. So he climbed to his tower once more, tying a small carrier to his falcon’s leg just as he had before. But this time, he left the page blank. 

Every night, they locked Alfonso in his room. And as he sat there, staring out the window in the middle of another sleepless evening, a shadow caught his eye. A familiar bird of prey circled in the clouds above, careening gently down with the wind under its wings like a graceful ballerina. It was Rasmus’s peregrine, and he immediately spotted the tiny satchel tied to its leg. He eagerly unfurled the small piece of paper, but there was no message...Alfonso grabbed a quill and scribbled out a single sentence, blowing on the ink until it set. He folded the note back up and packed it away. The bird waited patiently for the officer, and as soon as it had the directive in its pouch, it flew off in the direction it came from. 

Rasmus stayed awake well into the early hours of the morning, waiting for his feathered friend to return. He was too anxious to receive whatever letter might come back. He fell asleep sitting up in his office, his head slumped on the table in front of him. He woke up to the soft tapping of talons on wood, and jolted up to see his falcon pacing impatiently around his desk. Reaching out his forearm, the raptor obediently perched on it, standing still as he untied the carrier. He unfolded the parchment so quickly he almost tore it. On the page was one, solitary line:

Come rescue your princess.

Rasmus gasped, standing up too quickly and smashing his knee into the desk as he did. He yelped, refusing to let it slow him down as he limped as quickly as he could to wake up Mihael and Hansen. The two knights yawed and rubbed the sleep from their eyes as they followed Rasmus to the King’s room. Marcin knew it had to be important, and he sat up, looking at them with concern. They handed him the memo. 

\---------------------------------

There wasn’t any time to waste. They had to mobilize quickly, just the four of them. The sun still hadn’t risen. If they left now, they would have the element of surprise on their side. The men didn’t waste time putting on armour, instead they grabbed their weapons and headed out to the stables. Their Venetian masks gave them the appearance of ghastly figures as they rode in towards their enemy’s palace. A few guards spotted them on the horizon, but it didn’t take Mihael long to silence them with his bow and arrow. 

They approached from the side of the castle, which had much less defense than the main entrances. But they were going to need a guise to get in. Stealthily as possible, they changed into the uniforms of the soldiers they had just slain, careful to wipe off any blood. But they had only taken down enough men for three of them to go in disguise. Mihael volunteered to stay back, firing a grappling hook up into the nearest window and bidding his comrades adieu. He steadily began climbing the rope to the tower to gain a better watch point. 

The others patrolled the perimeter of the citadel, checking for the best way to enter. They circled around, entering through a rear courtyard. The area was quiet, and the knights barely passed any other troops. The kingdom was peacefully asleep for now. There was one issue, Jankowski had only come in person once before, but only to the throne. He had no way of knowing where the king stayed, but considering the SOS, he had a decent guess. Fortunately, Rasmus remembered the layout of the castle well. And he was quite certain the prince was being held below ground level. 

“Alright...I’ll head to the cellar,” the prince agreed quietly, “try and find his general if you can. The one from the party. He will be able to help us.”

They split up, and Rasmus led Hansen towards the room Alfonso had always stayed in. It was locked from the outside, without a key in sight. The blonde knight knelt down to get eye level with the handle, carefully pulling a dirk out of one of his pockets. Rasmus stood watch while he deftly picked the lock with the tip of the slender knife. After some jangling, the mechanism clicked open, and sure enough, Alfonso was there, waiting on the other side like he’d been expecting them all along. 

“Jeeze, are you a knight or a thief,” he teased quietly, commenting on the unexpected skill as he noted the knife in Hansen’s grip.

The tall man shrugged. 

The general grabbed his own weapon and led them out into the hall. 

\------------------------------------------  
The Duke. That was him, without a doubt. Mihael spotted the man walking through one of the gardens below, passing on his way towards the main section of the manor. The brunette fired off a warning shot, the arrow striking the ground right in front of the advisor. He stopped in his tracks and spun around, searching nervously for the assailant. 

“Up here,” Mihael waved.

“What business do you have here, ranger?”

“Recovering some lost property,” he replied, swiftly jumping from his perch and landing light on his feet.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t worry. I doubt it’s anything you’d miss. Seeing as you already gave it away once before,” he continued calmly, aiming an arrow at the nobleman’s head. 

He froze, but at that moment, two guards approached Mihael from behind, and he was forced to break aim, dodging their attacks. The counselor ran for his life, shouting to alert the other sentinels. The lone bowman was forced to run, too, twisting through various corridors to try and lose the guards in hot pursuit. Fortunately, he bumped into his companions in the process, the swordsmen easily fended off the two enemies.

“More are on their way,” Mihael warned, “but I found Zafra. We can’t lose him!”

They rushed back out to the main hall, but they were only greeted by at least a dozen more defenders. The Duke was nowhere to be found. 

“Shit,” the archer cursed, “I’m useless without a vantage point.”

Hansen knelt down in front of him without saying a word, and pointed to his back indicatively.

“Are you-”

“Just get on. This is the only time this is ever going to happen. And if you tell anyone else, I will kill you,” Hansen replied sarcastically.

Mihael chuckled at the false threats and climbed onto his friend’s shoulders. Rasmus and Alfonso both looked away, pretending they didn’t notice the sheer absurdity of a fully grown man sitting on another fully grown man’s shoulders as they were about to go into battle. 

“Oh, and if you lose a leg,” Hansen added, clapping a hand on one of Mihael’s slender thighs, “that’s on you.”

Rasmus and Alfonso charged at the group of guards head on, parrying with their swords and cutting them down without remorse. The brunette steadied himself, taking aim at the soldiers in the back while Hansen carefully strode into the fray. Even in this precarious position, the ranger never missed his mark. As Hansen swung back and brought his heavy claymore down onto an enemy, his passenger temporarily lost balance, squeezing his legs tightly around his friend’s neck to stay on. 

He giggled as he heard the blonde cough, clearing his throat.

“Jesus christ, you’re gonna choke me out,” he chided. 

\-----------------------------

Marcin’s footsteps echoed loudly in the underground chamber. He walked the long, narrow corridor, hoping it would lead him somewhere. With his heart pounding in his chest, he rounded a corner and saw him. The prince was shackled to the wall, sitting in the corner with his head resting on his knees. A lone guard that sat by the cell jumped to attention, but it was far too late. Marcin went directly for the throat, ending his life in a matter of moments. He searched the body for a set of keys. 

Jankowski fumbled with them for a moment, trying to find the match, until he finally got the right one. He slid open the cell door and pulled off his helmet, smiling down at the prince. Larsson’s face lit up as soon as he saw him. All he could think about was the first time he had appeared in his court disguised like this. And he almost laughed at how different the situation was this time around. 

After a few agonizing seconds, Marcin unlocked the shackles, and pulled Martin into his arms. They remained quiet, tightly fastened in each other’s embrace. There were a million things they wanted to say and do, but time didn’t allow for it. 

“We’ve gotta go.”

Larsson nodded, wincing as he stood properly for the first time in days. 

“Please tell me you didn’t come by yourself,” he said nervously.

“Well...about that…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, if only I could draw~ I would draw the scene with Miky on Wunder's shoulders so fast. Hahaha

**Author's Note:**

> I say this is sort of period because it won't be historically accurate in like...a lot of ways. But just so you get the gist of it. I feel some type of way about writing them ooc, but that's part of the territory with AU, and I hope you can enjoy it all the same. 
> 
> Anyways, what do you think so far? I feel like we need a story that pays Jankos more respect, so...he gets to be badass.


End file.
